


The Demon and the Samurai: Book 2

by ablindromance



Series: The Demon and The Samurai [2]
Category: Dir en grey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Dismemberment, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ablindromance/pseuds/ablindromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A samurai sets out to destroy the forces that took his family and his life away from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Those Without Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To hate oneself is to be closer to being human.

Some creatures hate what they are, what they are born to be. Some hate the skin they wear. How pathetic their lives must be, and yet, one could question if that ability to feel remorse for what one is is truly a thing to be pitied or a thing that brings one closer to humanity. Such feelings do not come easily or often, if at all, for those born of darkness. To be conceived in night and live in night eternal, kissed only by the sun's light when the human skin is donned, is both a blessing and a curse.

Indifference governed this one. He is what he is and nothing embitters him for being born into the world of the damned. This demon blames no one for what he is or is not. 

His head bows, pitch black horns curling back like a ram's on either side of his head. Blonde hair, looking deceptively dingy and unimpressive in the shadows, flies wild and untamed about his skull. Its thickness discredits its body; each yellow strand sways with the breeze that slithers through the bamboo. People are often warned not to enter the vast bamboo forest at night. To go alone is a death sentence. All manner of creatures lay in wait here, eager to consume that which is human and demon alike. "The Devil's House," they called it. During the day, it is a most beautiful place with natural springs cutting through the landscape. The bamboo is strong, dense, thick, and green. Only sunlight dares to cut in through the high-reaching greenery all the way down to the forest floor. When night falls, however, the sun takes all of itself with it and the moon's light dares not go further than the bamboo canopy lest it loses its way, too. 

Here is where the great demon sits, perched upon a throne of fallen bamboo and soft earth beneath it. Among the growls and agitated screeches of his brethren, the sound of shifting silk pulled by Kyo's nimble fingers is but a whisper. He strips the body of what used to be a courtesan. She is but a lifeless shell now, an emptied corpse whose soul had long been consumed when Kyo's delicate hands wrapped around an even more delicate throat. As the last breath was squeezed out of the young, unfortunate girl, her robes became all the more beautiful since there was no rivalry with the wearer. He will keep this furisode kimono. The deep violet-into-indigo backdrop well suited the spray of silver-white color over the right shoulder and the embroidered images of pink and white plum blossoms sprouting from delicately twisting branches. To waste such a fine piece of clothing would be a sin in and of itself. Once it was removed and neatly draped on a hanger of branches, Kyo set his icy stare upon the woman's naked body. He took no pleasure in lusting after humans, much less the women. They, too, could be devils, after all. He had seen his fair share of beautiful monsters for he was one. Even in his most natural form, he is hideous and gorgeous. 

Sable horns, flowing, golden hair, and gold-flecked scales dappling patches of supple flesh. Long, milky claws, full, wanton lips, and eyes as blue and as clear as the daytime sky. Terrible fangs, a velvet voice, and a soul nurtured by immortality. All these features quietly encased in a human skin make him a frightening and magnificent thing. 

He, however, could not care less. He is what he is, beautiful or ugly, and the humans rightfully fear him. He feeds upon them as he does now. Unlike those who crave just the flesh and blood for a decent meal, he sustains himself best on the spirit. Consuming that which is physical, he does so for the novelty of a full belly and little else. What nutrition he gets from actual flesh is minor, but it is still something. He seizes her delicate limb, a thigh, and sets his bare foot into her hip. With a firm and sudden twist, the bone rotates in its socket and cleanly breaks. Another vicious pull tears the flesh and spills blood in rivers on his feet. He palms a sultry calf and twists again, breaking the knee and driving the patella through the skin. Kyo tosses the lower half of the leg right over the woman's breasts and immediately gouges his fingernails into muscle to pluck it off in chunks. Heaps of bloody flesh are thrown into the darkness and desperate scavengers sneak in to steal the spoils of a meal they did not kill. Only once did Kyo bother to sink his teeth into a tendon and swallow whole the meat that was severed with it. He has no true need for it; the best meat is in the marrow of the bone. 

When he finally exposes the femur, Kyo braces his teeth against its thickness. His jaws clench, clamping down and challenging the strength of the girl's skeletal structure. Bit by bit, it splinters and slices his lips; her final fight. The last, sickening crack of the bone breaking in two meshes with the other sounds of the night. Spitting the blunt head of her femur into the grass, he wraps his lips around the jagged end and leisurely sucks at the dark, sanguine pulp. It flies out onto his tongue in rich clumps and he savors the tender flavor of a life cut short. Her youth becomes his sustenance and his horns conceal themselves by enchantment. His translucent skin dulls and darkens into the deep tan of a lowly laborer. His form lessens and returns to that of a young, small, and unassuming man, harmless by appearance and manner, yet branded by a slew of accusatory tattoos. The villagers marked him as a demon in infancy and the vicious inking compiled through all his childhood up until now. Only his eyes and hair remain unchanged, unnatural compared to the population. These differences of his were too great, thus he was an outcast. A freak. A servant boy in a house of prostitution. 

But everyone has his or her place in the world, do they not? If humans are this way, this cruel, this discriminating of their own, they are no better than the demons they fear. Kyo knows this, and with his long-collected wisdom, he pities them. They can blame no one for what they are or are not.

Inflicting himself with brutal gashes and bruises, he hurls away the bone and drags his meek human form-- a short, tattooed man by the name of Tooru-- back to the brothel from which he came, this time without the courtesan left in his escort. A tale of her malicious abduction would come to him on the path back, as would the tears of trauma and despair to solidify his claim.


	2. The Demon Slayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new face comes into town.

There was something quite peculiar about the samurai. Perhaps it was the inability of anyone to properly peg his age. He carried himself with dignity like a true warrior. He spoke as a learned man, aged by his trials. He was from the south, an area less developed than the modern Kyoto; his heavy accent suggested was from Mie, but no one was certain. Nothing great ever came from those farm houses and rice fields besides farmers. Surely this person, as noble as he seemed, had no drop of warrior blood in him. That possibility was unlikely but not impossible. And yet, here he was in his well-used but polished armor, regal stature, and lady-killer grin. It was that grin that confused people, for it was the very thing that contradicted his appearance and led him astray into mischief not befitting a samurai. His nobility was undermined by his blatant skirt-chasing. He charmed the women and kept company with someone new every other night for the few weeks he’d been on Kyoto soil. Even that wasn’t a surprise. This place boasted some of the best food and music, the most beautiful women, the most breath-taking art and architecture, and more. A man could easily get swallowed up in the fast-paced, lively city. _This_ man’s devil-may-care attitude proved that he was still young despite the discipline required to rise into the samurai class. Kyo knew little about him, as did everyone else. Personal details remained guarded, but his purpose and reputation did not. He was a samurai, a demon slayer to be exact, and his popularity was on the rise. “Daisuke” was all he went by, or so the villagers claimed. If anyone asked him directly, he'd say that he went by "Die," grim as it was, and he did so with a smile.

Kyo rolled his eyes. He assumed this one would be just like all the others: he’d become popular, let it go to his head, and then he’d be struck down like all the other unfortunate demon-slayers in their distracted bravado. Upstarts were stupid and careless like that. Blinded by their own fame, they’d lose focus and ultimately, their lives. Perhaps this one would have a decent gravestone erected with the money of his female admirers. 

Despite the very likely fate Daisuke had before him, Kyo found himself pitying the fool. He seemed rather harmless and boyish as he sat there in the bath, half asleep and probably exhausted from entertaining so many women and accepting so many offers for dinner. Quite the charmer, indeed. The ends of his long, thick, black hair floated atop the water like serpents tethered to his skull. The hot water flustered him, turning pale skin red and scarred skin dark. And he had many scars, too. Kyo found it surprising how many he had for being so young. Had he been unmarked, he would have been a beautiful creature. Those scars added maturity, however, and turned ‘beautiful’ into ‘handsome.’ 

Yes, he was handsome, Kyo had to admit. Daisuke was a fine cut of human outwardly, but it was his spirit that was most intriguing. It had a purity about it Kyo had not encountered in quite some time. From the moment Daisuke set foot in Kyoto and Kyo was put in his servitude, he’d been nothing but kind and respectful even to a lowly servant as he. Peculiar. 

Suspicious. 

Maybe Kyo was just overthinking things. He had plenty of time to think as he tagged along catering to Daisuke’s needs. As if pouring the nonsense of his thoughts out of his head, he crouched by the edge of the bath and poured a fresh bucket of hot water into the tub to keep it heated. The added heat caused Daisuke to stir, nearly tipping over a white ceramic dish and sake jar. The jar was empty. 

‘Really,’ Kyo thought. He must have had an amazing tolerance to consume that much alcohol in a sitting while in the bath. Hot alcohol and hot water easily accounted for a few accidental drownings or one Hell of a dehydrated hangover. Daisuke’s lips and cheeks were fiery, rushing blood confused about where to flow. 

“Mn… thank you,” he muttered, lifting himself slowly as if the weight of his own body was too much for him. He’d sat there for a while since Kyo had bathed him and escorted him here to drink and soak. “I think… I’m ready to sleep.”

“Yes, my lord.” Kyo placed his bucket aside, reaching for a long strip of cloth instead. As Daisuke drunkenly braced himself against the wall to stand, the smaller servant waited patiently until he was stable before he approached. Kyo found it annoying how tall the other was, as it caused him a bit of trouble to properly carry out his duties, but Daisuke didn’t seem to mind. He gripped the wall and tilted his head back so that Kyo could thread his fingers through his thick mane and detangle it as he pat it dry. The servant was rather skillful and delicate about it, and Daisuke was sure Kyo realized that this ritual was one of his guilty pleasures. 

Kyo did know and gently wrung out Daisuke’s hair. It stretched all the way down his back, clean, healthy, and strong. He wound it tightly around itself to sit atop his head in a bun before tending to Daisuke’s body. He dried the other’s limbs in sweeping strokes, pat his broad shoulders, back, and chest, and then crouched to dry his legs, feet, and thighs. He needn’t go higher, for Daisuke didn’t require nor favor excessive attention to detail. Kyo left him there only to return with his robes. One arm at a time, he helped the samurai into his clothing and tied his belt for him. 

“Thank you, Tooru,” Daisuke smiled, one arm slinging around the smaller man’s shoulders for support. Arrested in his step, Kyo wasn’t sure what surprised him more: the smile, the tenderness with which Daisuke spoke his name, or the drunken fellowship that forced him into closer (and heavier) contact with the other. Young samurai really were stupid.

“Yes, my lord,” Kyo replied with a polite nod of his head. Before he thought any longer about the Whats and Whys of this unusual man, Kyo freed his mental limb from Daisuke’s allure and began a steady trudge toward the samurai’s sleeping quarters. The sooner he got there, the better. He couldn’t afford another foot or hand or ankle or wrist or anything else to be caught up in Daisuke for too long. That was dangerous ground.

Charm, scars, and all, Kyo wondered just how long this one would last.


	3. Unnecessary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is really the fool?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyo's POV

He’s stupid. Just as I thought, he’s stupid.  
Not that he’s done anything particularly foolish to make himself stand out as a fool. No, that was something I smelled on him long ago. It’s a talent of mine. 

That samurai… To be a slayer of demons, his attitude is too calm, too easy, too cavalier. He’s too normal. And yet, there is a seriousness about him that one would never think existed if one didn’t spend as much time with him as I have. It’s been nearly a year, eight months, to be exact, since he was sent to hunt me. Since then, he’s barely raised a brow at my coincidental absences during the murders of courtesans. Then again, my appetite has slowed not only to throw him off my trail, but to string him along and see how truly stupid he is, and to observe him in my free time. He is my master, after all, and servants should never stray far from their masters. If I were as naiive as these humans, I would dare to think that he has befriended me and put some trust in me. Some evenings, if I haven’t drawn his bath or properly served him a meal, I am summoned into his quarters solely for companionship. He hasn’t touched me in the way these other men have; not even once. We’ve spent evenings talking of the best foods Kyoto has to offer, of the dramatic play of leaves as the seasons change, and of the best fishing spots in obscure corners of nearby villages. Where his memories might be real, the ones I share are only the ones I created when I adopted this human skin. He’s not quite easy to read, so he may be telling me lies just as believable as those that I tell him. No matter; he’s still a fool even if he may be the intelligent type. Sometimes I come to wonder, however, if it is I who has become the fool. Lately he seems to consume my thoughts, be it me criticizing him or otherwise. It’s a nuisance that distracts me from my other, more annoying work. 

“Ss….ah…!” I hiss, cringing in pain from the set of dirty, jagged nails that dig into the back of my neck. Drawn from my own thoughts, I notice the large hand is pushing my head down and I have no choice but to press my cheek into the musky futon beneath me. It’s a clean enough place, if one could even call a brothel clean in any sense, but he’s been atop me for quite some time now. Everything reeks of sweat, lust, and sex. I smell him all over my skin. 

“You tired? Or are you just thinkin’ about me that much?” he laughs breathily, thrusting himself into me so hard that it forces the air out of my lungs. “I paid good money for ya, so ya better perk up a bit. Lemme hear that pretty voice, huh? You know I like you the best of anybody.”

I really hate these humans. A man is worse than a woman and twice as sinister. I hate having to submit myself to them like this and pretend that I am weak. I hate pretending I am in pain. Though it does hurt me physically just the same as it would any other human, the knowledge that I can stop it and crack his bones in two with no effort agitates me even more. A fine position this is: to be in power and unable to use it. 

A waste. Bothersome. 

I sneer internally and close my eyes. Trapped under his weight and his excessive force as he’s fucking me, I cry out for him, nice and loud and weak. He likes it that way, the sadistic bastard. Perhaps it’s too loud, but no one will come. This is my job and he’s paid to sleep with me. Human indifference here in the Pleasure District alone rivals that of my demonic kin.

“There ya go, pretty. Feels good, huh?” He doesn’t stop driving into me but he does lower his mouth to sloppily kiss my cheek. His breath is heavy with alcohol and heat and my face twists up in disgust. I know he sees it but he never cares. It excites him all the more. 

My body is aching and I want to sleep, but he’s not done with me. Suddenly a loud clatter startles us both and I open my eyes to see that the wooden frame of the paper screens has been kicked in. The metal latch that held them shut dangles from the edge just before falling at a pair of unmoving sandals and the hem of a familiar kimono hanging still in the doorway.

“Just what the fuck d’ya think you’re doing?” The weight is briskly off me and my suitor pulls out of me. “Get the fuck outta here. If you want him, you best wait your turn, asshole.” He pulls his kimono on arm by arm and fixes the belt to cover himself. Immediately reaching for his sword, my aggressor is paused by a glinting point aimed at his dick before he could grab it. The tip slowly trails upward and stops to point right between his eyes.

“Been lookin’ all over for you. My bath ain’t drawn and this is where I find you?” Die is speaking to me but he’s not looking at me. I casually get up and pull my robes back down into place. Before I could apologize, he cuts me off with a bit of a smirk, eyes still on my customer. “You double-booked or something? Gunna have to talk to your boss about that. Get outta here and run my bath.” He dismisses me with a nod of his head toward the door and I exit wordlessly.

“As for you, m’pretty sure his boss doesn’t want you damaging the goods no matter how much you paid for him. Even if you pissed coins, you couldn’t afford him. And that’s my servant you’re fuckin' with. I need him in one piece.” I can see from behind him that his shoulders are squared and his stare is unwavering. I’d bet he’s still wearing that stupid smirk, too. 

“F-fuck you! You can’t do--” My suitor spits venom but it isn’t enough. His knees are shaking as the point of Die’s sword makes another slow descent back to point at his groin and slides inside the opening of his robes. He’s trapped between Die and a small wooden table supporting a candle, shifting uncomfortably to keep either side of Die’s blade from pressing into his thighs, among other things.

“Nah, I’m not into that kind of work. Why don’t you help yourself to one of these pretty ladies around here, though? Better treat ‘em right after you recover,” Die says casually.

“…what are you fuckin’ talkin’ about ‘after I recover’?” The rogue makes an angrily confused face just before I hear the hilt of Die’s sword quickly shift in his hand. He screams, loud and long into the night. I can smell the bitter scent of fresh blood as it spills but I can hardly bring myself to care much for it. I’m sore and I want to relieve myself of aching muscles and sweat and the smell of that man. Still, I wait patiently outside until Die comes out. With another twist of his wrist, the traces of blood clinging to the tip of his sword fling out onto the stone path and he sheaths his weapon. 

He doesn’t look at me. I don’t thank him. He heads toward his quarters. I follow. 

Though I limp and I hurt, he doesn’t turn to look at me or offer a shoulder on which to lean. I want to tell him of the slap on the wrist he will get for ruining my boss’s property and not only injuring but also scaring one of his patrons. I wonder, in some vulgar amusement of my own, if he severed the man’s genitals, too. As if he read my mind, he says simply “It’s just a flesh wound” and walks on. 

I suppose no conversation is necessary. He didn’t save me and I didn’t need him to. Having already drawn a bath for him earlier in the evening, he didn’t really need me, either. His reasons for action were his own just as my reasons for my actions are mine. Perhaps everything we do for each other isn’t really necessary.

We part ways when we reach the inn; I in my room, he in his. He tells me goodnight, though, and gives me a parting glance. His expression is neutral, but for the first time today, our eyes meet and I see something in them. Perhaps it is the coldness of my own reflection in them, perhaps it’s a play of the light. Perhaps it’s all in my own mind and my inability to understand this stupid man. Whatever it may be, it tells me something I can’t quite understand. 

I bow my head in obedience and leave. I’ll rise early and go to him tomorrow, as I always have. I’ve come to mildly appreciate our conversations, both simple and complex. I’ll perform in this dangerous play we have written with one another for just a bit longer. I know full well there will be a day where he comes for me and I will kill him.

Telling him such is also unnecessary.


	4. Depth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One evening in Kyoto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyo's POV

Snow has just begun to fall. Little by little, each delicate snowflake descends right where it was meant to be. The sky silently lays a blanket of white over Kyoto. Bright red lacquered umbrellas proudly fan out their arms and collect snow as they bob in the streets and through the narrow alleyways. People are lively, humming with a quiet excitement about the beauty of this district once it’s covered in white. Furisode sleeves have become long, heavy and thick, tabi socks have become even thicker. Women’s shoulders are draped with fur stoles. Men’s long overcoats are pulled tightly and closed with ornate belts.

The business of sex has slowed out of respect for the change of the season, but we still have our duties. This inn offers some of the best plum wine in town, boasting that its flavors are as fine and enticing as the beautiful women in its employ. They are beauties in their own right and are quite skilled in the ways of entertainment. Adorned in robes as precious as those of the well-to-do, the flowers of this inn are rather busy. It’s the season for fellowship, after all. Parties are held, liquor and sweet faces to pour it are in demand, and entertainment of the highest quality is expected. Just an hour ago, I had taken my place upon the polished wooden stage and revived ancestral tradition to the song of the shamisen. Yes, it was unordinary for a man to perform that which was a woman’s art, but the taboo of my performance is what attributes to part of the inn’s success. I am a coveted thing because of it. I am only summoned from my commonplace labors to do this when the more well-to-do guests want to flex the power of their purses and pay to have their parties see something exotic (or for themselves to sleep with something exotic in their drunken haze.) Dancing for wealthy men and women is child’s play to me. My feet have walked the earth many times over. My eyes have witnessed these performances to the point of boredom. 

Time is nothing to a demon. 

I know these movements by heart. The dances, so complex in all their simplicity, are second nature and I needn’t think about how to move or where the next footfall should be. The other women can gladly have all this attention awarded to me, for I’ve neither desire nor use for fame. The music flows through me like the wind through the bare limbs of a dead tree. Spectators are stricken dumb with fascination as they admire a graceful turn of my violet-and-gold clad body. Attentive eyes follow a slow overturn of my hand and lengthy fingers as I seize the bamboo handle of a brilliant gold fan. It snaps open and obscures my painted face and lips, and the audience holds their breath. Humans are too easy to please. As they admire me, my mind is elsewhere; I think about the nuisance of stitching holes in my tabi or how many stones are at the bottom of the frozen river. Menial things.

And yet tonight is a bit different. He came and stood in a dimly-lit corner. His eyes fixed on me. I caught his gaze and my thoughts were then pulled to him. He’d never come before, not for me. Perhaps curiosity got the better of him. Intrigued, I decide to initiate the game of seduction to which he seems so immune. My eyes smile at him and the subtle upturn of my mouth goes unnoticed behind the expanse of my fan. My stare catches on him and lingers for the briefest of moments before another flick of the fan precedes me turning my back to him. In that instant, in this room full of people, I perform only for him. The wailed lyrics of the tale continue, expressing the tragic story of two lovers who die waiting for each other in the thick of winter. They freeze to death, never to see another spring in each other’s arms. 

I’m still not sure who bested who, but the result is the same. Those almond eyes that watched me dance look down upon me now between my parted thighs. My fingers thread into his thick, silky mane that falls over his shoulders and onto my chest. We’ve spoken few words since he invited me to his bed, but we’ve conversed at length in body language and touch. His face is flushed but his jaw is still strong. His shoulders are broad and his milky skin is revealed to me in its entirety. I know every inch of it, save one: those supple, inflamed lips. They have graced my throat, my shoulders, the span of my chest, but he hasn’t kissed me. Instead he taunts me with their fullness and denies me purchase. A man is a man, and I’ve seen many, but his audacity to refuse me ignites my offense. His labored breath tumbles over my face and I command he end his stupid game. A firm pull of his hair allows my mouth to find his in the dim lighting and I gorge myself on it. Even as I pull his tresses and wrap my arms viciously around his neck to claim him, he is gentle with me. 

He’s been tender despite my aggression; not a single strike or attempt to restrain me comes from his hand. He hasn’t once moved to turn me onto my stomach and have his way. We lay face to face and embrace like lovers. He strokes my body with strong, dangerous hands. They’ve dispatched a number of my brothers since his arrival, stained heavy with the murk of blood. With each swing of his blade, he comes one step closer to me and we both know it. Perhaps he’s driving that idea into me with every unfaltering thrust of his hips. I find it enthralling. His ignorance of who I am, _what_ I am, and his eagerness to lay with me spurs me into a sense of excitement I have not felt for ages. I feel passionate about my ancestry and even more so about my intent for this man. Only now do I realize how much my sadist desires are satiated as I ensnare him and finally have him make love to me.

Surely love is what this has grown to be. He loves me, and he believes I love him. The gradual manner in which he’s become close to me is quite obvious. My duties lessen as he does more for himself, physical labor is light, and he spends more time with me wasting hours of the day as we talk about everything. Even his body language is relaxed now. More than just a man with a sword, Die is still a mystery. As intriguing as he might be, he is still a human and his desires shouldn’t stray further than any other human’s. I test the weakness of his humanity with a buck of my hips and an exhaled breath against his ear. Lust is the most inane vice for a man’s downfall, but it works every time. Maybe he’s more shallow than I think him to be, for he responds as I anticipated. He throws himself into me, filling me up and exploring the depth of my body in earnest. The pressure inside of me is so deliciously intense that my legs close tightly around him and I arch into his chest. 

“Ah… Die…” I mutter in honest pleasure. It feels good, for a change. _He_ feels good. This dark-haired beauty is an experienced, patient, methodical lover. Not above carnal delectation, I wallow in the way his weight pins me and in the steady rhythm of his hips. The length of him jars me from my thoughts and they casually sink as if drowned by the oceanic rise and fall of his back. My fingertips drag over the littering of scars there, searching for the stretch of skin that I will leave my own scar upon before long. It’s been so long since I’ve indulged in sex that my mind finally goes blank from the pondering of the depth of this man. He may have his fill of me without a price tag.  
  


The snow is still falling outside and the light sheet of it has become a blanket. From a small opening in the panel of paper screens around us, I can see the grey sky and white bulky clouds overhead. They remind me of his seed. Twice he’s come inside of me, the first time from when he enveloped me in his mortal romance, the second from when I mounted him and forced him to penetrate me and behold me as his more powerful conquest. I drove him to the deepest part of me, teasing him and pulling him so close to what he could never have. He wants my heart (that must be what he wants), but the closest he can get to it is between my legs. I inadvertently laugh at my own joke and decide that another month or two of meeting like this and pretending to love one another couldn’t hurt. At the very least, he’d get a good fuck out of it and I amusement from the irony of our relationship. I feel a strange sense of heavy sedation after our coupling; I feel numb and drunk. Surely it must be the vigor in which we take each other and the low temperature outside. My laugh stirs him and his arms, once dead with sleep, close more tightly around me.

“Whatcha laughing at?” Die shifts and his lips fall to my bare shoulder. I feel his chest press against my back, rising and falling steadily. The heat between us is nice; he’s young and hot-blooded. An aphrodisiac for us demons. My immortal body is always hot to the touch so I offer it to him for warmth with a shift backward against him.

“Nothing,” I say simply. He laughs shortly and the sweet scent of aged, dry plum wine wafts over my shoulder.

“You’re always thinking about something. Relax for once.” He strokes my belly and turns my face to kiss me before he settles again. I turn to stare out the narrow crack in the panel once more. With his long limbs and sinfully long torso wrapped about me, I almost feel as though he’s challenged me to something. As I close my eyes and ponder how deep his mind stretches, I can admit that he isn’t as shallow as I thought. Perhaps I will never know its depth because my own wicked intentions keep me close to its surface. It doesn’t matter, though. I only need to be close enough to his heart before I tear it from his chest.


	5. Untouchable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From one mysterious mind to another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Die's POV

He’s not impersonal, but he’s completely untouchable. I find that conversation comes easy, yet my participation in it seems like childish banter by comparison. His mind is elsewhere, full of this and that and never vacant even in the moments where sleep should find him. Despite the ease of his mental absence, he is quite present for me when we are together. Kyo is one of the most intellectual creatures I have met. I often find myself craving his opinion on various things simply to hear him speak. He has depth. 

He’s so human, so alive, and thankfully disconnected from his station at this inn. Had I been obligated to lay with brutal men, I wouldn’t have been able to manage that kind of life. It isn’t due to the tragedy of it, but more so due to my own suppressed aggression. To cut a man down is nothing. To cut a beast, even more so. ‘We all have our demons,’ they say. Some people conquer theirs, others hide them, others deny them, and still some others are devoured by them. What I’ve done with mine, exactly, I can’t say. All I know is that whatever I have done has earned me a bit of useless popularity. In any case, none of that matters. In the end, my reputation will die shortly after the moment I do. What matters to me now is how I spend my waking moments and what I have done with my life. There are gaps in it, holes that need to be filled. I see the same holes reflected in Kyo’s life, too. Perhaps they are what draws me to him and destiny is the reason we’ve met. We all have a purpose in this world. I think he is mine. What lies ahead of us may be beautiful or tragic, but it is ours none the less. Even as we lie here, embraced and naked and scarred and vulgar in our misdeeds, the beating of our hearts is the only thing tethering us to one another. He is in another world, close but distant. I feel the same, sometimes. I offer hollow grins to people but I’m always looking past them to the horizon for what might be next. 

For now, all I can see is the warm body in my arms and an endless land of snow beyond the wooden panels of my paper screens. Though its white color represents purity, it also represents uncertainty. One misguided step amid the unforgiving snow could earn one a slow and painful death at the bottom of the river. Ice splinters and cracks so beautifully that one forgets the dangers of it.

This romance with Kyo is the same. It’s fragile and obscure, and we dance gingerly around one another while avoiding the pitfalls that surround us. One day, encircled by glass-like shards of ice and dark, open water, we will have no choice but to look in each other’s eyes and see each other for what we truly are. A checkmate, if you will. When that day comes, as it surely draws near, I can only pray that I will be ready to face him as the man I have become and tell him the truth of everything.

Whether he sees me or _through_ me now, I can’t be sure. I can only claim the current realness of his fingers threading through mine as we watch the snow fall. 

“Kyo…?” I call to him, but he doesn’t answer. I hear his slow exhalation of breath and realize that he is asleep. Ironic; he usually never sleeps in my presence. Maybe a bit too much plum wine to keep our bodies warm is the cause of this rare moment in which he rests so near and so soundly. I have to make him drunk—so drunk that he loses all sense. Over and over again, he must drink from me and succumb to my slow-acting poison. He won’t go quietly from this place because it is his home. 

One way or another, I will deliver him from the hands of man at the risk of my own life and my insignificant reputation.


	6. Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins.

“No, please! Please!” she shrieked, violently kicking against Kyo’s hold. Helplessly dangling under his arm as he carried her, she could do nothing to escape him. She struggled in vain until her body jarred with a sob. 

They called this place ‘The Devil’s House.’ No one could hear her scream in the dense bamboo, and if someone did, he or she would not dare enter such a dark and ominous place at the risk of his or her own life. One could always enter this forest, but none ever came out. 

She was a commonplace woman who had her function in the daily operation of her village. Her salty attitude and lack of grace disqualified her for any sort of courtesan lifestyle. Her long, dark hair, thin lips, and youthful face just weren’t enough to excuse her unruly mouth. A pity, Kyo thought, but all the better for him. She would go unmissed for a while; he needed to be low-key, after all. After fasting for winter in the company of Die, he had finally folded to his need to feed. He felt starved, and the agitation of turning the other cheek to perfectly good meals finally caught up with him. He thought it strange that sparse feedings which never bothered him before now spurred a ravaging appetite almost beyond his control. Still, he could be a little patient and appreciate the girl before tearing her apart. 

Her breath poured out of her body in thick clouds, for the temperatures were still low even though Kyoto was nearing the end of winter. She tired herself out with fighting, crying, and had relinquished her hope of fleeing. Her legs were weak and her body frigid, so she merely sat, too frightened to run, in a mix of melting snow and fresh earth. Kyo seated himself nearby on his throne of bamboo. The rest of Mount Arashiyama’s bamboo around him was still thick and green, but one face of the tall columns was caked with snow and ice. Prolonging his meal like a predator toying with its prey, he allowed the girl, Yuiko as she was called, to behold his demonic form while he beheld the forest. While she did not accept his offered courtesy, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and appreciated the way in which snow heavily powdered the leaves overhead and the thickness of snow on each ridge of bamboo before him. That gentle whiteness made his mind wander to the samurai. He found it unusual how little things here and there reminded him of Die. Just like the snow, the human’s presence sprinkled over him one delicate layer at a time and was now a formidable barrier between his human façade and his demonic manner. Kyo wondered what he was doing now, in fact. When he woke in Die’s bed in the early hours of morning, the samurai was not there. Kyo assumed he was probably on some errand, for his skirt-chasing had long since curtailed and the vigor of their love-making left him little drive for anything more than a bit of harmless flirting. Despite the nuisance of Die’s true purpose in Kyoto, he was a stimulant and Kyo didn’t think it a stretch to admit that Die had endeared himself to him to some degree. 

“What a fool,” he said nonchalantly, eyes fixed on a clump of snow that crumbled under its own weight and tumbled to the ground. If only Die had been in some other line of work, Kyo would have entertained a deeper friendship. At the very least, he was interesting and entertaining, and his wicked tongue had many a night slain Kyo into a drunken slumber of tangled limbs and mingled breaths. He silently shook his head. His meal was getting cold and he sought to make short work of her before her blood ran cold. As he moved to stand, she shrank and shivered violently. Brilliant gold hair and pearlescent scaling about his skin shimmered in the afternoon light. Stark white claws curled as he pulled them through his long, feathered mane. He was a beautiful creature, but his inside was stone. Standing over the girl, he seized her by the collar of her thin clothing and, with one hand, lifted her above him. As her feet dangled, he admired her beauty as if she were a freshly-caught trout.

“My dear beauty,” he spoke gently, albeit coldly, “your sacrifice is noble. You saved someone else’s life today.”

“And so will you.”

As Kyo wrapped a hand around her throat, he was interrupted by a familiar voice. Though his alarm should have been great, it was not. That voice had lulled him to sleep, coaxed him awake, picked his brain about literature and philosophy. Kyo slowly turned his head and peered over his shoulder with cold, blue eyes and an equally chilling smile. “So, you finally caught me.”

“I always knew. Let her go.” Die raised his katana and pointed it at Kyo. Beneath a heavy cloak, his arms were bound by thin strips of leather laced up to the elbows. The proud uniform of the samurai was shunned, replaced instead by a woven, once-white mockery of a kimono haphazardly stitched together to close openings and former gaping holes. Black stains and tatters along the lower hem at his feet were like the very scars on his body: permanent. No amount of washing would remove them. Another thin flap of leather was draped over each shoulder and laced across his chest with red string, appearing as fresh blood seeping into black soil. It wouldn’t provide much protection, but it was his. Around his hips was another wider flap of leather, broad on one side, then splitting off into two strips on his left. Each strip supported the weight of a blade: the katana and the wakizashi. His blazing eyes and neatly bound hair were affixed above a crimson mask that obscured half his face. Its downturned mouth sneered to display monstrous gold fangs and rows of teeth not unlike the monsters he’d slain. His breath barreled out like smoke from the horrible red mouth as he breathed slowly and with the full of his lungs. In this dress, he was the killer in demon’s clothing and his gaze concentrated on Kyo. 

The demon stalled to spite Die then dropped Yuiko to the ground. She gasped for breath and scrambled away, unsure of where to go, but knowing that any distance away from Kyo was better than where she previous was. The demon finally turned his back to her in favor of stronger, more delicious prospects.

“I underestimated your intelligence. It was only a matter of time,” he admitted in nonchalance.

Die ignored the provocation and gave a jerk of his head to summon Yuiko from her place. As she clambered to be at his side, he flung the cloak off his back and tossed it to her.

“Run. Follow the marked bamboo. Tell the inn keeper ‘three days,’ and do not fail me.” 

As she draped the cloak around her shoulders, Die drew his wakizashi and thrust it into her hands. Discovering her new-found strength to run for her life out of fear, or out of obligation to her deliverer, she took off into the bamboo forest without looking back. 

“You’re quite the hero. I just wish this day wouldn’t have come so soon,” Kyo drawled thoughtfully, rolling his great, horned head from side to side to loosen his stiff joints. “I will truly miss you, samurai. You were a clever and beautiful thing.”

“You talk as if I’m already dead. We still have much to discuss,” Die smirked.

“You might as well be. Your love for me brought you here, but unfortunately it will keep you here.” Kyo flexed his hands and bared his teeth, his body crouching. The samurai laughed under his breath, both hands seizing the hilt of his katana and his feet sliding into a well-rehearsed stance of attack. Both creatures were low and ready to strike. 

Neither moved. Both pairs of eyes watched the smallest details of the other body, studying the sway of each other’s hair right down to the rise and fall of the other’s chest as he breathed. They honored each other and the code of battle in silence, reading the air for the Moment. Many moments passed and, finally, both human and beast erupted under the broken tension.

Kyo snarled and sprang at Die, his lean body covering the considerable distance between them. Die rushed at the demon in return to close the gap. 

Kyo landed just behind him, missing the target and earning a sharp strike to the back with the blunt side of Die’s sword. Enraged by the taunt, he spun on his heels and charged again. Teeth bared and eyes wild, he swiped his long claws at Die and would not relent. 

Forced to parry those dagger-like weapons, Die shuffled backward with blind but instinctive steps. The force of Kyo’s swings shook him but he did not falter. With grit teeth and a tight jaw, he darted out of Kyo’s brutal slashes by a hair’s width. Unable to land a proper blow, Kyo lowered his head and threw himself at the other. Dark horns drove into Die’s stomach and threw him several feet into the hard bamboo groves. The larger stalks hurt badly enough, but the smaller stalks gave him a more concentrated pain. They swayed but did not break and the leaves overhead showered the grounded man with gentle flakes of snow. The huge knot in his stomach choked him and threatened to make him vomit as he groaned and tried to right himself. Kyo was already in pursuit, running on all fours like an animal to cover more ground. He sprang again. Another oversight in his charge. Die threw himself onto the ground and rolled beneath his leap, causing him to miss. The demon landed harshly, sliding on a patch of slick ice and thrown against a tree in a flurry of blue and gold robes. 

Patches of purple sprang up onto Kyo’s silken clothes. Blood dropped on his bare feet. He’d been sliced diagonally across the chest. 

Enraged by his unsure footing, he scrambled to pursue the other on more firm ground. As Die finally stood, he too damned the wet ground and faltered. In that moment, Kyo’s hand tore through the air. Die’s mask flew and landed like a blood splatter onto a mound of snow. He staggered from the contact and manned his sword. A cold wind bit his face and four deep gashes on his right cheek dripped freshly with blood. Hearing the deep growls of the other as Kyo stared him down, he took measured steps back onto dirt and invited the monster to charge again. When Kyo refused the invitation, Die moved ahead instead and took a bold swing to sever his arm. He cut just above the bicep, but the blow wasn’t deep enough. Putting a wall of bamboo between himself and Kyo so that his stomach could un-knot, both foes circled one another with locked eyes. The demon wanted to break Die’s arm in return for the damage he received. Meanwhile, Die’s brain worked furiously to calculate the best offense. 

Eventually he circled to the clearing where Kyo previously stood and drove the tip of his sword into the soft ground. Jaw steeled, he straightened his back and stood empty-handed.  
The demon found it extremely stupid to disarm mid-battle, but he was more offended at the blatant disrespect that the act suggested. Was he not good enough for an honorable fight? Was he too weak to be killed by experienced steel? With only his pathetic leather armor and plants standing between him and death, was Die undermining his strength? Kyo tore through the bamboo and seized Die, immediately picking him up and throwing him into another clearing. He flew and landed heavily, shoulder crushed against the exposed roots of a tree. On his side, he quietly groaned in pain until Kyo charged at him again. If Die dared to land the first blow and not make it fatal, dared to draw first blood and not revel in that small victory, then Kyo would toy with him in return and make him suffer. 

“You stupid human!” He picked Die up and threw him to the ground, driving him into wet dirt and straddling his prone form. Heaving a heavy breath, it clouded out of his mouth and engulfed Die’s face. “You dare taunt me? You will die here.” Kyo took hold of Die’s lapels and slammed him into the ground again and again and again. Each blow took the wind out of Die and he grunted beneath Kyo’s weight. He became light-headed from the impact, but clung to consciousness despite the fast-blossoming headache in his skull.

“Even if I die, your time—hng—is short.”

“You can hardly be the judge of that,” he retorted. “You won’t live to see it. But—“ he trailed off, long fingers centering Die’s face before him. “Before I kill you, I want you to know that those nights with you revived a fire in me.” Lowering his head, his golden spray of hair spread about his shoulders and covered Die. Kyo’s velvet tongue slithered past his lips and lapped at the blood rolling from the gashes on Die’s face. “…such a pity that you are what you are, and I am what I am.”

The stilled samurai beheld the demon and the pearlescent scales framing his face. It was truly sinful to be crafted so beautifully, and yet be so toxic on the inside. Pity was mutual. This feeling tumbled in his chest as the stroke of Kyo’s tongue warmed his cheek. Calmer still he grew as Kyo’s lips found his and forced the flavor of his own blood into his mouth. He knew this kiss, so well-rehearsed, passionate, lustful. Limbs unmoving, he returned the gesture and indulged…

Then he pulled a hidden dagger from a fold in his clothing and drove it into Kyo’s side between his ribs. The short blade stuck cleanly once, twice, and Kyo pulled himself up with a pained snarl. Intending to bite Die’s throat out, he struck to sink his canines into the exposed flesh. But his teeth caught steel, grinding against the blade as it swiftly, smoothly slipped between them and sliced the corner of his mouth. Die finally showed his true strength as he dropped the blade and took hold of Kyo’s horns. With a power to match the demon’s, he grappled Kyo and dismounted him with a violent twist of his head. His body followed and Kyo lay disoriented and blinded by his own mane. In the brief moment he had to escape, Die scrambled to his feet to retrieve his sword. Not a moment later, Kyo was upon him, leaping high into the brilliant light of the morning sun.


	7. Blood and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle ends.

The battle was long and arduous. Temperatures dropped and evening was slowly crept into the bamboo forest with every passing minute. Like an eerie aura seeping into the universe, the heat from their bodies radiated from them in a fine smoke. Kyo’s silken kimono was in shreds, a mere shadow of the fine piece of craftsmanship it once was. His tattooed body was exposed, skin torn and punctured. He’d lost an arm from the elbow down. He’d been stabbed in a lung and impaled twice in the liver. The tendon in his heel had been cut and left him limping. A horn was broken and his body was wet with blood. How much of it was his or Die’s was indiscernible, for the samurai was doused in blood, too. 

His dark, beautiful hair was unbound and obscured his right eye in which he was blinded. His shoulder throbbed painfully from a traumatic dislocation and resetting, his leg was fractured, his wrist broken. Kyo had driven his claws into his stomach but at the sacrifice of his own arm. A wielded piece of bamboo came down upon Die’s clavicle earlier in the fight and snapped it in half. He was exhausted and barely fighting the shock his body wanted to hurl itself into. The samurai leaned against the broad trunk of a tree now stained with his blood. Kyo did the same, mirroring the weakness in his own body. They stared at one another, focused, amid the demonic stirrings about them.

Die had one last chance to slay Kyo. He pushed himself from the tree. He raised his weary arm and took a step forward. Two steps. A third. 

As if it would keep Die at bay, Kyo snarled and shrank an inch.

A fourth step, and Die raised his blade above his head.

A fifth step, and Kyo readied to drive his skull into Die’s battered body to rupture his stomach.

Upon the sixth step, the katana came down just short of its mark and Die went with it. Collapsed from fatigue and internal bleeding, his body laid still on the cold, hard ground.

Kyo hobbled from his post and shoved Die onto his back. Straddling the other’s prone form, he turned Die's face and held it at center by the throat. The samurai didn’t fight. He was unarmed and all his efforts were put into breathing while he stared up at Kyo’s slashed face.

“Consume my body… --makes my death... worthy,” he strangled out beneath Kyo’s grip. There was no pleading in his tone or in his gaze; there was only the request.

Kyo’s own ragged breaths stalled his speech, but he tilted his head and stared down at the other.

“I intend to, but not for your sake.” His grip tightened just so and Die stiffened to try and ease the labor of breathing.

“Tell me you love me,” Kyo demanded. “While you live and breathe.”

With a lowered head and turned ear, Kyo listened to Die’s strained voice as he spoke. A strong, shaking hand rested on the missing scales of his cheek.

The whispers that tumbled from Die’s lips were heavy. They pelted Kyo like boulders dropped one by one from a mountain top. His heart thudded loudly but his face betrayed nothing. The demon’s skin even crawled with an emotion so foreign that he was stunned into silence. Die chuckled weakly and Kyo lumbered up to sitting. Again, he studied the pained serenity on the man’s face, confused by the reason he was so calm. Was it another mockery even now? Agitated, Kyo’s expression turned to stone.

He violently slammed his fist into Die’s sternum, breaking it and driving the collapsed bone into his heart.


	8. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days after the battle has ended.

Kyo sat for another half hour trying to regain the strength to eat. Such a vicious fight in his starved state left him totally depleted. When he finally did eat, he did so with a consciousness and care not characteristic of himself. Kyo used Die's fallen sword to split his chest open and cut out his heart. The metallic smell of stale blood twisted his stomach in hunger and he gorged himself with large, tearing bites into the sinewy tissue. Swallow after swallow, he consumed the precious organ until nothing remained. 

Ribs, broken and unbroken, were plucked, sucked of tender pulp, and licked clean. Kyo placed each one into a neat pile beside him. As he lowered himself like a dog to dine on pink lungs matured by kiseru pipes, he stopped to look at Die’s face. His deep brown eyes now dulled by death peered off into the early evening. 

Kyo closed them.

Blue lips that took a final red breath were parted.

Kyo delicately shut them.

Of the countless intentions he had to destroy this body, he would perform none. Even in death, Die was handsome, but more significant than that, he deserved respect. Preserving the integrity of his face, Kyo ate of his innards and did not rise past his chest. 

In the cover of night, he fed and used what little strength he accumulated from his meal to move, undress, and redress Die’s corpse. Stripping him free of the filthy, once-white rags he wore, Kyo bound him instead in fresh black attire he obtained from a lord who strayed too far into his forest. Heavy for winter and dark to hide blood, the red-lined kimono and paired jacket were wrapped tightly and securely around Die’s body with a thick, red sash. With claws and remaining limbs, Kyo dug Die’s grave in a clearing of young trees and buried him. 

His was the first grave Kyo had ever dug, and he sat near it to contemplate such. His preoccupied mind worked while his empty eyes stared at the noble katana that marked Die’s resting place. Countless thoughts clouded his brain. Just what did Die’s words mean? Kyo would never get the true answer now. What he did realize was that his return to his station in Kyoto was impossible now. He couldn’t show his face with a severed arm, and certainly not after Die’s high-profile disappearance. Even in death, the samurai was getting even and uprooting the normalcy of Kyo’s life. 

“Bastard,” Kyo muttered bitterly. He could not go back to Kyoto because there was no longer anything for him there. He’d surely be killed or driven out. That was a matter for later, however. For now, he needed shelter and time to heal. Struggling to his feet, he began the long trek to a time-worn cottage from his youth. The forest had swallowed it up long ago and his residence in Kyoto proper left the property over-grown with nature from disuse.

The first night upon arrival, he slept. The first day, he cleaned himself in a nearby creek, dressed his wounds, and slept. The second day, he drank from the creek and considered what his next move would be. Where he’d go next, he wasn’t quite sure. The effort of thinking was exhausting, so he slept on the second day, too. Kyo realized then the severity of his injuries. He was tired and healing much more slowly than normal. The fight with Die was barely won as the samurai proved to be his match. Kyo was closer to death than he had ever been and would have been right to fear Die as his equal. Underestimating the human cost him an arm, and Die's cruelty of slicing it into pieces dashed all hope for reclaiming and reattaching it. Permanently marred and still weakened, Kyo cursed his name in every moment he thought of the other. Die caused so much intrigue and disruption that death wasn't punishment enough. Kyo simmered in his bitterness, his pain, and his restlessness in the darkness of night. On the third day, everything changed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rain came down in a steady pitter-patter on the thatched roof. It wasn't unusual weather for winter, but it always made a sludgy mess of the ground outside. As if the earth was cleansing itself, the rain melted snow and gently stroked the remaining ice from the vegetation. Spring would come early and bring forth new life even into The Devil's House. Indifferent drops of water slipped through the holes in the demon's roof and dropped to the floor where he lay.

Kyo had been grounded since morning, writhing in violent nausea and partially paralyzed in all his limbs. Now that night had fallen and he still hadn’t moved, he was livid and wild with agitation from his body's uncooperative state. Spitting venom on the samurai's name, he snarled loud enough to interrupt the hum of rain above.

 _"He cursed me... He cursed me...!_ ," he thought to himself as he clawed the floor. Staring into the small fire pit he'd lit for warmth, Kyo sneered and clenched his teeth while he inched closer to it. His health gradually declined in the passing hours of noon, so he thought it best to regain his strength with more rest. He was jarred awake by shooting pains all over his body that he could not explain. Surely three days of rest should have eased some of his suffering. When he found himself unable to move, he flew into a panicked rage like a trapped animal.

"Bastard!," he roared, shuddering from the effort. His head lowered to the floor and a huff of breath sent dust flying from beneath him.

_"You'll pay."_

"Shut up."

_"You'll pay."_

"Shut up!"

Thinking himself delirious, he heard Die's voice over and over again, haunting him, speaking in whispers that would not quiet. In fact, they grew louder.

_"You are my brother. You will pay."_

"Shut up!!"

The demon screamed, teeth bared in another snarl as he lifted his head to find the source of the noise. For the last two hours, there was none. The whispers about him were like the very oxygen he breathed: present but unseen. This time, however, he saw a pair of feet standing before him. Following the hem of black clothing and its red inner trim, he looked up to see Die's tall figure looming over him. His face was void of emotion, his skin immaculate and unscarred. Long, thick hair fell down his back and blended with his clothing. He was perfect and unharmed, and the energy about him was heavy.

"You..." Kyo growled. "What have you done to me?!"

Die crouched near the flames of the pit in the floor, watching him.

"I told you that you would pay."

"What-- have you done?!" He demanded again and reached out what was left of his arm to grab at Die. The limb felt like lead and he scorched it in the fire.

Die stood then, frigid in his response.

"You're going to suffer. You'll bear the pain of those you murdered." His feet padded silently on the floor with aimless steps but his eyes never left the demon. No sooner did he stop speaking did Kyo cry out in pain.

His femurs twisted out of their sockets with a dull crack. A pair of ribs broke and pressed against his skin. Kyo arched in agony, muted by shock.

Die sank back into the shadows.

"You...." Kyo hissed with a labored breath. He dropped his head from the sudden reopening of all his wounds and the gash on his chest. It was now crossed with another slice down the center of his breast. Blood sprayed over the floor and he felt a bout of dizziness overcome him. Be it from the blood loss or otherwise, he couldn't tell. The room rocked like a lumbering ship, right to left, steady and sickening. Kyo's jaws tightened in warning. He managed to groan once, then he vomited violently onto the wooden floor. In staggered lurches, acidic bile poured out of his mouth. Chunks of human flesh, churned and deteriorated, tumbled into the pit and burned. The stench of it twisted his stomach and he vomited again. Bones, skin, pulpy marrow and blood oozed through the cracks beneath him. A stringy coil of intestines clung to his hair. Each heave agitated his broken ribs. He continued the puke-smell-puke cycle until his stomach cramped. Now that it was empty, his last heave was little more than a thin, orange soup of blood, water, and saliva. Stung by fatigue, he almost welcomed unconsciousness to take him. Desperate to lie flat, he rolled over onto his back, unable to move or speak, like an insect pinned alive to a display board. All was quiet except for the rain that still fell and the rasp of Kyo trying to catch his breath. Then Die spoke.

"Did you know even demons could sin?" His figure glided from a dark corner, feet no longer visible. Kyo kept his eyes fixed on Die, narrowed in hateful questioning. Die saw it and spoke again.

"You've lain with me. Each time you took my seed, you were poisoned by your own flesh. When you consumed my body, you ate of your own kin. Even your kind has laws."

Kyo's brows furrowed in rage. Every time he and Die slept together, he felt a strange euphoria that was easy to get addicted to. He felt high and low all at once, drunk from their combined lust. What he thought to be a feast of human vice was truly rotten scraps of betrayal in disguise. He growled low, fierce and deep.

"Blame your father. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood," Die said, suddenly hovering face to face with Kyo and laying a hand to his sullen cheek. He lowered as if to kiss the demon’s snarling lips but stopped short. Kyo felt a heavy drop of liquid on his face. Then another. And another. The drops fell steadily and he snapped his teeth at Die in defense. They caught air, and the samurai rose to display his wounds at death. His injured eye now dripped with blood so dark that it was almost black. He was no longer the clean, handsome apparition he was. Now he was thrown back into battle, scarred, red, and broken.

"Get out! Get away from me!" the demon screamed angrily. The reality of them sharing a father, of his own hubris, of him being so pathetically unaware of what bound them, tore his mind to pieces. Of the many years he survived and belittled the mortals, the insult of a demin as great as he being deceived by a tainted human was more than dishonorable. It was laughable.

Die tilted his head in wonder then drove his hand straight through Kyo’s stomach. His form had no actual contact, but the physical pain of being run through with dagger-like claws ripped through Kyo’s body and he howled in agony. Die tore his hand out and a river of blood pooled beneath the demon. His blonde hair was now rust-colored and clumped together. The white bandages that covered his wounds were so saturated that they started to slide off.

Kyo’s stomach throbbed. He whimpered and clenched his eyes shut in an attempt to end the nightmare. He was certain that that was what all this was. He’d awaken and find morning light as he always did. 

His bones continued to break themselves one by one. 

Over the thunder of his own pain, he heard a soft cooing sound. It was muffled and weak, but it persisted though his groaning. _’What was that?’_ he wondered. It grew louder, but yet it was still so very soft. A fluttering in the pit of his belly bewildered him. The sensation was so foreign. He couldn’t tell exactly where it was. He only felt pressure and a fullness he couldn’t explain. 

“I hate you,” he whispered. Die said nothing. He was no longer in sight. 

Bewildered, Kyo focused on the strange fluttering between his groin and stomach. He didn’t want to witness more of the terror his body was being put through, but he couldn’t help pulling his robes open to see what was happening beneath them. The sound returned and his pelvic bone cracked.

“Stop! Ah--!! …please, stop!” he cried.

The pain shot up into his back and his stomach contracted. Something pushed at him from the inside. Something was trying to get out. 

Horrified by small hands and feet thrusting beneath his skin, he panicked and clawed at himself. Tearing into his own flesh in a fit of madness, he gouged his fingers inside and pulled at his own muscle. His eyes went feral as a head pushed through his stomach and split him open. The crying of the infant was deafening now. It crawled out of him slowly, screaming and struggling until it rolled on the floor with a thud. Umbilical cord trailing from Kyo’s body, the fetus lay in a pile of unrecognizable meat and cried loudly from an under-developed mouth.

Kyo could only scream, driven mad by the sights, sounds, and smells about him.

“For your crimes, your soul will be split into three, never to reunite. In all your reincarnations, you will always be incomplete. You will know yourself, but you will never be whole, and your life will never be fulfilled.”

“Die,” Kyo groaned, the sound wet and forced from a throat so tight that he felt strangled. He _was_ being strangled on his own bile and blood that flooded his lungs. The red fluid bubbled up from his mouth and slid down the corners. Kyo grabbed at his neck as if to pry off the unseen hand that clutched him. His eyes drifted in and out of focus, but he still saw Die’s figure. The black-clad samurai held something in his palm, something thick and bulky and thudding. He brought it to his mouth, parted his lips, and took a graceful, killing bite of it. Blood gushed from the organ and Kyo’s back arched sharply. He couldn’t scream, for the ache in his chest muted his voice. The demon gargled his own blood and his body convulsed. Unable to command any part of himself, he wasn’t sure if what came out of his mouth next was a gasp or a sob. Whatever it was, it took the last ounce of his strength.

Die knelt beside him, sitting and gently collecting Kyo’s head into his lap. For the first time, Kyo felt the tangible firmness of Die’s body and felt a bitter comfort from it. The man’s strong hands stroked his hair and thumbed blood from his face.

“In your cycles of rebirth and death," he continued, "you will carry the weight of others’ sorrow on your shoulders. But I will be beside you.”

Die’s face became an assembly of shadows. His words became echoes. The weight of his fingers became too distant to feel. Kyo’s own body became heavy and, with Die’s face as the last thing he saw, his world faded to black.


End file.
